Any surprise at the sight of Kira signing on for bunker duty depends on how, and how long, one might know him. No, he's not volunteering to pick up a weapon and defend his liberties as a kidnapped clone villager; yes, he does still go by dumb bitch energy on his widely abused wrist device. Yes, he is probably taking recreational substances down with him.
But he is always at his best when doing something, and he's always kept a finger to the pulse of what the fuck is going on. Call it a holdover from Kira 1 or 5.0, he's not quite sure anymore.
If he's going to keep the list of names and colors going, all the better to tick them off at the source. At the very least, he can't let Karen experience the existential horror show without him. At the very, absolute lease, if they look like a shithead who might bolt or strangle him, he can opt out of opening the fucking tubes he knew they were being grown in. Fuck this place, honestly.
When he's done, he slips around to the other side of the bar in anticipation of the dinner crowd. Playing bartender isn't really his calling in life, but he's got moonshine to move out of Mark's pantry, a journal to update, and it beats having to hear the six hundredth complaint about the ironic tavern with no booze.
Late afternoon finds him sitting on a chair behind the bar, pen and notebook in hand, tumblers lined up on the bar itself. Behind him, the jars of moonshine gradient from amber to clear, a few of them labeled with color names from the birthday candy mixed into the mash. He won't be at the support group, not tonight--but he'll be here, offering his preferred antidote to adversity.
"Pick your poison," he says idly, as people drift into the room. "One of them might turn your hair blue."
Kira Akiyama | OTA | Rota signups and Bar tending
But he is always at his best when doing something, and he's always kept a finger to the pulse of what the fuck is going on. Call it a holdover from Kira 1 or 5.0, he's not quite sure anymore.
If he's going to keep the list of names and colors going, all the better to tick them off at the source. At the very least, he can't let Karen experience the existential horror show without him. At the very, absolute lease, if they look like a shithead who might bolt or strangle him, he can opt out of opening the fucking tubes he knew they were being grown in. Fuck this place, honestly.
When he's done, he slips around to the other side of the bar in anticipation of the dinner crowd. Playing bartender isn't really his calling in life, but he's got moonshine to move out of Mark's pantry, a journal to update, and it beats having to hear the six hundredth complaint about the ironic tavern with no booze.
Late afternoon finds him sitting on a chair behind the bar, pen and notebook in hand, tumblers lined up on the bar itself. Behind him, the jars of moonshine gradient from amber to clear, a few of them labeled with color names from the birthday candy mixed into the mash. He won't be at the support group, not tonight--but he'll be here, offering his preferred antidote to adversity.
"Pick your poison," he says idly, as people drift into the room. "One of them might turn your hair blue."